Sara Lefsyk 
From
I draw a fake effigy. “Who let us into hell?” It says.




 
I found out my diagnosis
included writes in a violent
penmanship.

My target weight was 100 tiny
mammals.

The day my fingers scratched a
hole through your postcard, my
target weight was moss and
pieces of ugly rock.

I found out my diagnosis
included, up all night singing ugly
songs about fish.

My target weight was ghosts and
a measurable pulse.

Reading recipes she finds under her
mattress, my diagnosis was a victim
absorbed into her aggressor.

My target weight was a severed
head and eight pounds of wild
strawberries.

Once, in a pale room, my target
weight was a 50 foot electrical
cord.

Under fire for giving testimonies
near a far-off bridge, I was
labeled an insolent traitor. My
diagnosis included speaks in made-
up voices about imaginary things.

When they found me absolutely
smashed in the nurse’s lounge,
my target weight was upgraded.
When there was outbreak of
starvation tactics on the ward,
my target weight was a pan full
of overcooked vegetables.

(They wanted to cover me in
pink dresses when my target
weight was the fat arm of
Shiva.)

When they found me at the
bottom of the lake talking to the
minnows, my diagnosis was giant
latent wounds.

When my target weight was
pieces of golden-black hair, they
wanted to cover me in an even
more unrealistic fashion.

My diagnosis was the only daughter
of a solitary fish.

My diagnosis was two-fold:

1. My body was a healed piece of
meat and
2. My heart was a pit of unpaid
bills.

First, they wanted me to drink
the milk of an unknown animal.
Next, they wanted to send my
ass to the hunted dump.

(My target weight was a pail full
of toads.)

When my target weight was a
pail full of undigested food,
again they they wanted to
troubleshoot my diagnosis.
My diagnosis was stuffed with flora
a n d  t h e  t r e a t m e n t  w a s
taxidermy.

They wanted to stuff me full of
an unknown fauna then charge
me for a substandard test.
My diagnosis was the matrons of
stubbornness are her inheritors.

My diagnosis was has ideas about
scorpions. My diagnosis was a
century of fingers. My diagnosis
was written all over a cellulose
map. My diagnosis was an ugly
center.

When they found me hitting my
face against the alter, my
diagnosis was spent the new year
with a small but intimate group of
snakes.

My target weight was an
unimaginably tiny corpse. How
many times do I have to tell you
that my target weight was a
bu n c h  o f  n e t t l e s  a n d  a
pinecone?

When a heron flew by, my
diagnosis was erased. When the
dr. came through, my diagnosis
was reversed. When my
caseworker visited, my diagnosis
was again reassessed.

(10,000 insurance companies fell
to their knees)

When my diagnosis was a
fractured rib, my mother could
no longer recognize me. When
they no longer had a language
for my diagnosis, I threw up in
the community pool.

(My target weight was written
on the skin of an animal.)

My diagnosis included writes in a
sad penmanship about ordinary things.

When they found me typing love
letters to a pack of wild dogs,
my diagnosis was unattainable.

When they found me scraping
my ugly little teeth against the
pavement, my diagnosis was
dental. When they sent me to
the actual dentist, my diagnosis
was an eight-fold path.

No one could tell me anything
because my diagnosis was small
and vegetal.

When my diagnosis was glass-jar
heart, the treatments were: wild
hare, water of rye and water of
snake.

My diagnosis was a never-
ending receipt.

When they wanted to triple my
prescription, my target weight
was rotting plums and a tape
recorder looping songs about
very sad ponies. When they
wanted to triple my diagnosis
my target weight was decided by
a very tiny man.

When my diagnosis was a chart
full of shorthand, the only
treatment was transfiguration
tactics.

When my diagnosis was as rabid
as a sack full of potatoes, the only
treatment was written in the
language of aphids.

W h e n  my  d i a g n o s i s  w a s
invented by the beloved, the
only treatment was to worship
or to be worshipped by the
beloved.

(10,000 angels crushed me
beneath their knees.)

When the only treatment was to
be funded by a hypnotist, I
failed the manifestation test. my
diagnosis was levitating an inch
above me.

My target weight was floral
scented and shaped like a coffin.
When my diagnosis was found
b y  r o o t i n g  t h r o u g h  t h e
dumpster, the janitor was
exalted.

When my diagnosis was fungal,
my body was amorphous and
swollen from forced feedings.
When I asked for a treatment to
become a little more temporary,

they gave me unto the not-even-
completely-vanish machine.

When I asked for a dagger, they
handed me some roses and a
sack full of pills.

When I asked to be composted,
they handed me a rosary.

When I cried every night for 10
years, they dragged me like a
ladder through the soft gold
fangs of the orchard and forced
me to frolic.

My target weight was coffin
scented and shaped like a
foxglove.

When I dug a large hole with
my claws, my diagnosis was the
profound melancholy of growing up in
a small but savage town.

When I grew haunted among
the foxgloves, my target weight
entered into stasis.

    

betweenthehighway CCLA 0.4
wherever
visible and invisible
streets meet